Weirder Shadows Over Innsmouth

DAWN HAD JUST started to edge the clouds behind the blocked silhouettes across the river, a white-grey mist. For a few moments the Manhattan skyline looked alien, like something Cyclopean, a hundred suns away. But the two men hardly registered the change in the light. Engrossed in their thoughts, they sat on a bench, focused on the shared inner dilemma that had occupied them throughout the night and previous evening.

The man wearing the distinctive blue of the NYPD, a sergeant, leaned back and yawned: he looked exhausted. Beside him, no less tired, the police detective watched the cold water thoughtfully. From the pocket of his raincoat he pulled a small audio tape, idly turning it over in his fingers. The other looked at it uneasily, hands shoved deep in his own pockets, as though a sudden chill breeze had ruffled him.

“So what’s the deal, Hal?” said the detective, though his eyes were still on the river. “You want to hear this again before I turn it over to the chief?”

The other considered a moment. “I guess we’ll all look pretty stupid. It’s not just the private dick that’ll sound like a fruitcake. Me most of all. I was the one who went in after him.”

“You think anyone will believe this stuff?”

“Do you, Ed? You’ve known me a long time. You think I’m cracking up?”

The detective shook his head. “Nah. If you say you saw something, then you saw it. But you’re certain? It was late, Hal. You were tired.

The light wasn’t good, that’s what they’ll say. It’s not the sort of thing people want to hear. You know?”

“Yeah, sure. Let me think about it.”

“Okay, but we don’t have much time. They’ll expect us back at the precinct pretty soon. One way or the other, we have to decide on our story.”

Again he flipped the tape recording.

As the dawn dragged itself skywards, they mentally went over the tape’s contents one last time.

Transcript of the interview recorded by Detective Sergeant Ed Mullins, NYPD. October 14th, 2002. In attendance, police sergeant Hal Vanner.

The voice is that of Mr. N. Stone, a private investigator.

In my line of business, you can’t afford to be picky. Some days, some months, you have to take the rough, as there’s no smooth. Putting it bluntly, these days there’s not a lot of smooth. Smooth is something I get from a whisky bottle. Okay, I draw the line at some stuff: I don’t do divorce cases, snooping on some sucker who’s screwing around, or some wife who’s looking for a new life away from her loaded husband. You can keep that kind of grime. Otherwise I’ll take on the more obscure stuff and brother, I’ve seen some bizarre things. There may be a Hell waiting in the afterlife, but I’ve been there already, more times than I care to mention.

I know a lot of the guys in this town call me Nick Nightmare, usually when I’m out of earshot. That’s about all you need to know about me. You’ll have a file on me. There’s always a file, right? Nick Stone, Private Eye, Public Fist. Tackles the cases other dicks won’t touch, kind of like that beer ad.

So anyway, you want to know about this case. Yeah, well, it’s pretty weird, I’ll give you that.

It started with a phone call. I was workin’ late the night before last, catchin’ up on some paperwork. I’d had a lean week, so I shut myself away to get on with it. I don’t have a secretary. They’d only go nuts tryin’ to work for me. Anyway, this phone call was from some guy who sounded like he was talkin’ through a hole in his throat. Maybe he was, given the kind of crap he was mixed up in.

Wanted me to find a man. Here in New York. Wouldn’t be easy, said the guy. The man he was after was an illegal immigrant, gone to ground. They had a few clues about where he might be, a trail.

I asked for some details, but gravel-voice didn’t want to stay on the phone. Maybe he thought my wire was tapped. It’s not, I promise you. I like my privacy and I have some good contacts for that kind of wire work.

The guy said, was I free now. This was 2:00 a.m. But it suited me. Especially when he told me how much he would pay. You don’t need to know that. So I said, come on over.

Less than an hour later they were knockin’ on the office door. Three of them. I know it’s October, but these guys were done up like they were headin’ for the Russian Front. I thought maybe they had at least three trench coats on, they were so god-dammed broad. And the slouched hats were classics. What little I saw of their faces were white. Not pale, but white. I’m not sayin’ they were zombies, but they did not look healthy. And they never showed their hands. Just kept them at their sides, deep down in their pockets. Shooters, I guessed. Why be different from everyone else in the neighborhood?

Only one of them spoke: the batteries on the other two must have run down. I guess he was the guy I’d spoken with on the phone. His voice was a gargle, foreign, maybe Eastern bloc, like he was full of runny cold. I know the light in my office was pretty poor, but his eyes were colourless. No emotion. Flat. Very cold fish.